I went over my parents house yesterday. It's the second time I've gone over in the past two weeks and that in itself is shocking. Last week I helped my mother lay down plywood. Yesterday we put down ice and water shield and then felt paper over a roof that really should have been torn up.
It's so bad we had to be careful where we stepped, or we would have gone through. Rotted to the core!
It was nice helping out. It always makes me feel good to do things and help out when I can. Especially because my dad is in a wheel chair. That's another subject for another day. They only call me when they need something though. Don't get me wrong, I love to help them, but it would be nice to have my parents call me up and say, "Hey George hows the writing going?"
They never mention my writing. I've told them many times, but for some reason it doesn't register in their minds. Funny thing, isn't it.
Back to helping them out. I love to help my Mom, but my dad on the other hand is a stubborn pain in the ass. A drunk as well, but those two, (stubborn pain in the ass and drunk) are synonymous. I don't particularly like helping my father. If anything goes wrong he blames everyone else but himself. He himself never makes a mistake and never has.
I wish I could never have made a mistake in my whole life. What I want to know is, deep in the depths of his mind, does he really buy his own lies? Does he really know about the mistakes that he has made. Is that why he drinks and drinks? So he can forget them. Does he drink to quiet that voice inside him. The voice inside all of us. The voice inside me too. That voice that helps me write. It can be a dark voice, a depressing voice sometimes, but that voice gives me the edge I need.
I don't want to suppress that voice, I want to nurture it.
How the heck did I get here anyway?